


No Matter How the Wind Howls

by engineerwenlock



Category: Cosmere - Brandon Sanderson, Stormlight Archive - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, He ends up as a Lieutenant in Sadeas' army, Inspired by Mulan (1998), Kaladin gives Amaram the Shards, Shallan joins the army, Shallan uses Stormlight like steroids, Slow Burn, journey before destination, she has a lot of catching up to do can you blame her, suspend your disbelief a little, the backstories are still mostly the same, the soulcaster never broke
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 16:27:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21851236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/engineerwenlock/pseuds/engineerwenlock
Summary: Inspired by Disney's Mulan. Starring Shallan Davar as Fa Mulan, Pattern as Mushu, and Kaladin as Captain Li Shang.Shallan joins the army to save her brother.  Kaladin gave up the shards to Amaram and was granted a position in Sadeas' army on the Shattered Plains.
Relationships: Shallan Davar/Kaladin
Comments: 64
Kudos: 51





	1. We've Got a Long Way to Go

_Shallan_

After her brother Wikim finally fell asleep, Shallan Davar crept into his room, stole the army summons scroll, and left a hair comb in its place. She hoped that her brothers would have the sense not to follow her. The roads would be full of witnesses - army draftees and government officials, and the penalty for what she was about to do was, well actually she wasn’t sure. As far as she knew, there was no legal precedent for a woman trying to join the army. Maybe she’d be excommunicated. Maybe they’d kill her. Best not to find out.

If the draft notice had come a few years ago, it would not have come to this. Not long ago, the Davar house had been overflowing with eligible men - four sons and their able-bodied father. But now her father was dead and Helaran was missing. Balat’s leg disqualified him from army service. Jushu had gone west on a trading expedition to try and turn around the finances of their estate, since they’d had to give back her father’s soulcaster, and the last of the quarries were running out. That left WIkim. War could be the making of some men, but Shallan knew there was a good chance it would destroy her sensitive brother. 

She lopped off her hair and stole the provisions that had been set out in preparation for Wikim’s departure. 

Shallan made it an hour before she had to admit to herself that she could not wear her father’s old armor for the entire trip. Eventually she would have to learn to ride a horse while wearing it, but for now, she was already beginning to develop blisters, and it was a three day’s ride to the nearest army camp. She removed the armor by spherelight and adjusted the bindings on her chest, hoping they would conceal her identity well enough for the trip. 

“I find it fascinating -” said a disembodied voice behind her. She started, then remembered it was only Pattern. He had started talking to her a few months ago, gradually growing in intelligence and awareness of the world around him. Pattern continued, “-that you are choosing to alter your appearance in order to join the army. Are all new recruits required to bind their chests and cut the fur on their heads?”

“No. Joining the army requires one to be a man. And it’s hair, not fur.”

“But you are female.”

“Well I don’t want anyone else to know that.”

“Mmmm... lies.” hummed Pattern, “You know, there are a number of anatomical differences you have yet to address, most markedly the-”

“I know, I know.”

“So what do you intend to do about-”

“Ahh I don’t know. This is crazy. I can’t - I mean I don’t -”

“I believe if we work together, your lie will be much more successful. All I need is a truth, and we can begin. ”

* * *

Shallan closed her eyes and pulled Stormlight from one of her spheres to create the illusion: visualizing the image she wanted to create, which still made her blush, even after three days of practice. She hadn’t altered anything that was visible outside her clothes. She had considered changing her face and hands - a more defined jawline, less delicate fingers, a bit of stubble. Ultimately though, she realized the danger of constantly spending Stormlight to maintain such an illusion. Better to appear a little feminine all the time than to have a face she couldn’t maintain during the Weeping. That would give her away for sure. She would save this strange ability for the occasions when someone else would see her without clothes on: shared barracks, communal bath houses, latrines. Even exercising without a shirt on, which men seemed so fond of doing, would have been impossible. Now, she just had to hope that the doctor didn’t do a very thorough exam, since her illusions were intangible. 

She snuck a quick peek under her clothing and confirmed that everything looked correct. This was the first time she had done the illusion correctly without sketching it again first. She was incredibly grateful for her artistic studies, otherwise, she would not have known what male anatomy looked like in the first place. 

As she strapped on her armor, Shallan glanced at her hands: covered in dirt and blisters, but paler and better manicured than any soldier’s should be. Her safehand was several shades lighter than her freehand, and she had made Pattern promise to buzz every time she tried to hide it in her sleeve. Hopefully she could break the habit soon. She used Stormlight to make her hands appear tan and calloused- not forever, she told herself; just until they looked this way naturally. But for now, she could imagine the illusion was a glove, and that soothed her nerves a bit, which was good because she was only about a mile from the encampment and she needed her wits about her. 

* * *

Shallan stood at attention on the parade ground with nineteen lighteyed cadets in the officers training program, drafted into the army just like her. Well, not exactly like her. They were all men. 

She’d been nervous to check in yesterday, but the bored clerk just asked for the scroll and her name, and wrote down Jushu Davar in the ledger. She sent sent Shallan to the medical examiner without a second glance. This was the part she was most dreading. Fortunately, over a hundred darkeyed soldiers had also arrived that day, so the overworked healer did the bare minimum. He checked her vision, reflexes, and hearing and asked a few cursory questions about her family medical history. Shallan breathed a sigh of relief and went about the rest of check-in: bunk assignments, instructions on stabling her horse, getting issued a uniform. She was dismayed to be told that they would muster at dawn the next morning. And that was where she found herself now. 

“Stand up straight, cremlings!” shouted the red-faced, potbellied, peg-legged training officer, Captain Thakal. 

Shallan had excellent posture, even half awake and garbed in the itchiest clothing she had ever worn. But she noticed that the men in the row in front of her stood with their legs further apart than she was used to. She adjusted her stance to mimic them and squared her shoulders. It was details like this that could reveal her secret if she wasn’t careful.

“You are the worst looking batch of idiots I’ve ever seen. Your families were probably grateful for the chance to get rid of you,” the captain continued. “I’ll be glad to be rid of you myself, come two months time, when I get to send the ten worst of you to become Alethkar’s problem.”

Shallan heard surprised muttering from two men in the back row. But really, she didn’t understand why they were surprised. Even in her out-of-the-way province, she’d heard about the new treaty with Alethkar that required her country to send some of their army to support the Alethi at the Shattered Plains every year. It was the reason the king had implemented a draft in the first place. In return, Alethkar had offered lucrative trade deals and agreed to a ceasefire in the contested border between the two countries, with the border redrawn in Vedenar’s favor. The treaty was a great boon to all of Vedenar, with the exception of the men being sent to fight. But there had been no mass outrage about sending the soldiers. It was rumored that many of the darkeyed recruits had committed minor crimes and were given the choice between prison and the army. The draft was supposed to be random, but Shallan doubted it was a coincidence that her family, who had fallen in prestige and favor, had been sent a draft notice. Many of the other lighteyed conscripts were sixth dahn or lower. All in all, a shrewd way to fill the quota with few objections from the general populace. 

Captain Thakal must have heard the muttering too, because told the two whisperers, “Looks like you two morons have your heads so far up your asses you can’t see anything beyond your own intestines. Rule number one of warfare: you can be a damn prodigy with the sword, but it doesn’t matter if you don’t know who to point it at. Until you learn to pay attention, you’ll be carrying double packs up that hill for our morning runs. Everyone, line up, single file and let’s get geared up!”

The hill was a nightmare, and Shallan only made it halfway up it before she collapsed. She had lagged behind significantly, so only Captain Thakal, bringing up the rear, saw her fall. 

“Kelek’s potent halitosis! This is the army, not a vacation. Get up, soldier,” he shouted. 

Shallan groaned, but surreptitiously drew in enough Stormlight to heal her aching legs and give her the energy to finish the run. 

She ended up using Stormlight frequently during those first few weeks to improve her endurance, strength, and recovery time. She was still the scrawniest person in her training group, but at least she could keep up on the frequent runs and lift the heavy weights Captain Thakal used for strength training. 

She had worried about what to do when her monthly cycle came around, but it hadn’t come once in the two months she spent in the training camp. She recalled a passing line in one of her books that said women who were forced to do difficult manual labor could experience trouble conceiving children, but didn’t go into much detail. Now, based on her own experience, she surmised that the cessation of her cycle was connected to that. She was glad for it in the short run, and tried not to think about the long-term ramifications if it wasn’t temporary. 

So far, her deception had been a success. Sure, they thought her pampered and soft, but she wasn’t the only one. She was physically incapable of a deep booming voice, but she was getting better at lowering the pitch. The rumor was that a few of the men in camp were impoverished tenners paid to impersonate the draftees. Shallan hoped that everyone thought her family had just paid a particularly young boy to impersonate Jushu. The army didn’t really care as long as they got the numbers to send on to the Shattered Plains. 

But most of her cohort had grown up playing with swords - running around outside while Shallan had learned to read and write and draw. She proved to be a quick learner, sneaking away to draw the proper stances so she could imitate them herself. She’d had to purchase a new sketchbook, having left hers at home. She kept it hidden, but as an extra precaution, she made sure to stick to rough sketches. If a man knew how to draw, that was unusual. If he could draw as well as Shallan at her best, well that was suspicious. And so Shallan let go of another piece of herself and let the role she had to play consume her. 

Meanwhile, her small stature and relative lack of physical skills made her a target for other trainees who were trying to prove themselves. She came through the hazing mostly unscathed, but didn’t make any friends in camp. 

By the time training ended, Shallan had improved by leaps and bounds, but two months was not enough to catch up entirely. She was chosen to travel to the Shattered Plains and granted the rank of Ensign, a post reserved for young officers in training. She had originally hoped for a cavalry posting, but was deemed too uncoordinated, so she sent the horse back to the estate. 

Shallan had always wanted to see the world, but she’d never imagined she’d do it as a soldier. An army march through the frostlands wasn’t exactly the natural history expedition she’d been hoping for. Still, Balat had eventually agreed, in the letters she’d had to pay a scribe to read to her ( _storms_ it felt  odd not to read or write), that it was better her than Wikim. Wikim was less happy about the decision, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for a super long author's note. Sorry not sorry.
> 
> 1\. We're going to assume for the purposes of the narrative that Pattern is a bit more knowledgeable about Lightweavers can do. He's also more sentient earlier in the story. It's hand-wavy, I know, but work with me here. 
> 
> 2\. I'm going to acknowledge straight up that I am nowhere near Sanderson's skills as a writer. I'm also, like, half his age and writing this story on the internet for fun. Frankly, writing fanfiction for this fandom is terrifying because Sanderson is so good and I know I can't compare. But, I'm doing it anyway because journey before destination. I absolutely accept constructive criticism. 
> 
> 3\. I know Shalladin is not a popular pairing for fic. I've read Oathbringer. I really like Adolin. I get it. But fanfiction is for what could have been, and they had so much potential in WoR, so here goes.
> 
> 4\. QUESTION FOR YOU: I'm trying to make an important decision a few chapters down the line. With Kaladin in the army proper, logically Bridge Four does not exist in the form we know and love. I could go one of two ways: 1) incorporate at least some of them into the story in other ways and hand-wave how they got there. Pros: Bridge Four characters are amazing and some of my favorite characters in the series. Also Drehy notices "Jushu's" crush on Kaladin before anyone else. Furthermore, I don't have to write a ton of OCs. Cons: That's yet another canon divergence. I'm already pushing my luck with two major ones. 2.) Keep Bridge Four members on the bridge crews. Write terribly sad (for us) scenes about Kaladin stepping over the body of a one-armed man with Herdazian fingernails or Shallan seeing red hair like hers (Rock) among the dead. Pros: It's more canon accurate (sob). Cons: not sure I could write it well enough to make it worth killing my faves. Also y'all might hate me.  
> I know this is unconventional, but will you please weigh in on which way you'd prefer this to go?
> 
> 5\. Shallan's worry about her period stopping and wondering if its permanent is meant to illustrate the fact that Vorinism seems like exactly the kind of religion that doesn't encourage talking about sex or reproductive health. Hope that makes sense.


	2. I Let Them Slip Through my Fingers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> underlined portion at the beginning is a direct quote from Way of Kings

_ Kaladin _

_ One year ago _

Everything felt  _ wrong. _

If he took that Blade, he’d become one of them. HIs eyes would even change, if the stories were right. Though the Blade glistened in the light, clean of the murders it had performed, for a moment it seemed red to him. Stained with Dallet’s blood. Toorim’s blood. The blood of the men who had been alive just moments before. 

It was a treasure. Men traded kingdoms for Shardblades. The handful of darkeyed men who had won them lived forever in song and story. But the thought of touching that Blade sickened him. It represented everything he’d come to hate about the lighteyes, and it had just slaughtered men he loved dearly. He could not become a legend because of something like that. He looked at his reflection in the Blade’s pitiless metal, then lowered his hand and turned away.

“It’s yours, Coreb,” Kaladin said. “I give it to you.”

“ _ What?”  _ Coreb said from behind.

Ahead, Amaram’s honor guard had finally returned, apprehensively appearing at the top of the small hollow, looking ashamed.

* * *

Coreb spoke up, “I believe my squad leader meant to say that he wishes to present this fine set of Plate and Blade to his superior, Highmarshal Amaram. Everything we have done today has been in your service, and it would be the highest honor to present you with the spoils of victory.”

Amaram eyed them suspiciously but said, “Your honor and bravery does you credit, soldier. Squadleader - um -” 

“Kaladin, sir,” Kaladin answered out of habit.

“Squadleader Kaladin, your men have fought well today. The dead will surely join the fight to reclaim the Tranquiline Halls. As for the Plate and Blade, I couldn’t possibly accept them.”

Coreb, who had come to stand next to Kaladin, whispered, “Insist that he take it.”

Kaladin didn’t understand the fear in Coreb’s eyes, but considering he had been about to entrust a full set of  _ Shards _ to Coreb, it wasn’t a difficult decision to trust him in this. Kaladin told Amaram, “No, no Brightlord, I insist. I just got a lucky hit. I wouldn’t know what to do with a sword anyway. I’m only trained in the spear, after all.” 

Amaram appeared stunned. Nobody said anything for the moment, and then Amaram broke the silence, “I believe a promotion is in order for you, young man. We’ll discuss the details later, but for now, you and your men get cleaned up. In fact, have a hot bath in my chambers and instruct my chef to bring you anything you desire to eat.” Amaram signaled for one of his honor guard to escort the men, Kaladin and the remaining four members of his squad made their way back to camp. 

Kaladin and Coreb hung back a bit from the honor guard and the other three, and Kaladin whispered, “What am I missing?”

  
Coreb explained, “That look in Amaram’s eyes. I’ve seen it before, when he wants - no, no, feels entitled to - something that isn’t his. It’s not true desperation, just the ‘need’ of someone who isn’t often told ‘no.’ And it’s a dangerous thing. Once when he visited Brightlord Ashar,” Coreb had once been the apprentice steward of a citylord several days’ travel south of Hearthstone, “Amaram demanded to examine some family heirloom of Ashar’s. Ashar refused. Later, a couple of housemaids caught him snooping around Ashar’s private effects, but somehow Amaram managed to turn the blame on them. He accused them of stealing, and, though I’m fairly certain Ashar could guess the truth, you don’t contradict a man in Amaram’s position. The women were beaten severely and dismissed without references. I-I can’t imagine what he would do for Shards.”

So much for Amaram’s honor. If what Coreb said was true, deep down Amaram was just like any other lighteyes. Worse, even, since he appeared trustworthy. But if you can’t count on someone all the time, why trust them at all?

Amaram’s reward for Hab, Reesh, Alabet and Coreb was a substantial sum of money and their choice of duty assignments. Kaladin got the same, along with the recommendation that he be promoted to Lieutenant, the highest rank a dark eyes could reasonably hope to attain. Anything was a pittance in comparison to Shardblade, but Coreb had instructed the men to bow and scrape and act grateful for the boons they received. 

Hab had a wife and child, Alabet’s father’s health was beginning to fail, and Reesh wanted to be a merchant when he left the army. The reward was enough let them chase their dreams and take good care of their families, provided they survived their remaining time in the army. And their survival seemed fairly likely. Kaladin’s choice of posting was still the Shattered Plains, but each of the remaining members of his squad selected relatively safe and boring positions, miles away from the borderlands. 

* * *

The reinforcements to the Shattered Plains traveled to Kholinar and joined armies from all across the kingdom in a long caravan of soldiers, provisions, and, to Kaladin’s dismay, luxury goods. Having been promoted to second lieutenant, Kaladin was the highest ranking darkeyes in the Sadeas contingent. He was placed in charge of all seventy-eight spearmen for the duration of the journey, reporting to the light-eyed Captain Jeral Mavarien. 

His duties consisted mostly of keeping the peace. He had to know which men couldn’t serve guard duty together and break up the occasional fistfight. Kaladin wished he could do more to enforce basic rules, like a curfew or even uniform requirements. When a camp had structure and discipline, it ultimately made the leaders’ jobs easier. But Kaladin didn’t have much power, and Captain Mavarien didn’t see Kaladin’s ideas as necessary. The infighting and disorder was, in a way, a microcosm of the entire caravan. 

Ostensibly they were to travel as one unit, but most of the soldiers had just spent years fighting border skirmishes against the armies of the other highprinces. Kaladin felt for the caravan commander; deciding on travel order and campsite allocation was a logistical nightmare. Sadeas’ soldiers couldn’t be trusted near men from either princedom that directly bordered Sadeas’ land holdings: Aladar and Vamah. Thanadal and Hatham had just ended a particularly bloody and underhanded dispute, and it seemed like no princedom was above its own petty rivalries.

Men were injured frequently. Kaladin lost four spearmen on the journey: one to desertion, one to a venomous lizard bite, one to a highstorm, and one who, in direct defiance of Kaladin’s orders, drunkenly wandered into Aladar’s camp, insulted someone bigger than him, got beaten to a pulp, and died of his injuries. 

When the caravan arrived at the Shattered Plains and Kaladin saw that the ten warcamps were kept separate from one another, he burned a prayer of thanks to the Almighty. 


	3. You Gotta Learn to Let These Things Go

“Charge! We’ve got them now!” bellowed Battalionlord Ralashin from his horse. 

“Squad One and Two, follow me!” shouted Lieutenant Tam. They charged into the weakening group of Parshendi, pressing their advantage. A few squads from other platoons were doing the same. 

Kaladin, as second-in-command of Platoon Fifteen, now had field command of the remaining three squads. Tam’s group advanced, doing well until suddenly a new surge of Parshendi slammed into their flank. Kaladin saw a few men go down, Tam included, his green officer’s uniform easily recognizable amid the brown garb of the enlisted soldiers. 

Kaladin could hear Sargeant Orr from Squad Two barking out orders in his strange nasal, high pitched voice. The men did their best to get into formation, but the Parshendi seemed intent on scattering them and picking them off a few at a time. 

“Three and Four, wedge formation!” Kaladin bellowed over the din of the battle. 

They lined up immediately. In the largely undisciplined Sadeas army, Kaladin was fortunate to serve under Tam, who held his men to a higher standard. Well, not fortunate, so much as ended up here after personality clashes with his first three platoon leaders. Regardless, right now, Tam and Kaladin’s combined insistence on discipline was paying off. 

Captain Mavarien, now commander of Kaladin’s company, shouted from a distance, “Hold the line. Don’t advance.”

Pretending he didn’t hear, Kaladin told the leader of the adjacent platoon to spread his forces out to support Kaladin’s remaining squad on their section of the line, then led his two squads into the fray. Syl, the windspren only he could see, who talked to him sometimes - did that make him crazy?- flitted around his spear as they pushed through the Parshendi to the stranded men. They created a corridor and begun ferrying the wounded back behind the lines.

A man from Sergeant Orr’s squad turned Kaladin's attention to Lieutenant Tam, unconscious and spurting blood from a wound in his left leg. Kaladin wrapped a bandage above the injury, then tightened it until he cut off all blood flow. If Tam survived, he would lose his leg, but that was better than certain death from a damaged artery on the battlefield.

When it was clear their corridor was holding, Kaladin led a subsquad to rescue smaller pockets of men. Most were darkeyed spearmen but a few lighteyes had lost their horses and been separated from their units. Kaladin was at a loss as to why they had traveled so far down the battlefield. 

Once the rescue operation had been completed, they all retreated back to the main line. Kaladin’s men continued to fight the Parshendi while he and a few others with medical experience worked on the men who had not yet been run to the medics. 

While Kaladin was bandaging a dangerous gut wound, a tall shadow blocked the sunlight. Kaladin finished what he was doing, then looked up. It was Captain Mavarien on his horse. 

Kaladin stood up. “Orders sir?” he asked.

“Lieutenant, whose time is more valuable? Mine or yours?” came the snide reply from Mavarien. 

Kaladin knew better than to make a smart remark about the wounded man’s life being worth more than Mavarien’s time. Antagonizing his commanding officer was a dangerous thing to do in the middle of a battle, when Kaladin had so many men to protect. “Yours, sir,” Kaladin said. 

“Then next time, don’t make me wait. Your orders are to hold the line. That last assault left us spread thin. The cavalry has almost reached the chrysalis. No need for more heroics.”

“Understood.”

“And we will discuss your insubordination when we return to camp.”

“Insubordination? What do you mean, sir?” Kaladin asked. Playing dumb was the only thing Kaladin had learned from the second platoon leader he’d served under, but it was a useful trick every now and again. 

“You disobeyed direct orders to hold the line.”

“Oh?” asked Kaladin, “You said to hold the line? I could have sworn you said, ‘Go get them.’ My mistake.”

Mavarien huffed in annoyance and ordered, “Be prepared to retreat on my signal.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Stormblessed,” said Mavarien, not bothering to hide his contempt, “If we need to go quickly, leave the worst of the wounded. We can’t afford to stay a minute more than necessary.”

Kaladin replied, “Noted, sir.” Yes, Kaladin noted that Mavarian cared less for the men under his command than he did for the bonus all the commanders received if they ‘won’ the battle. 

A win as defined by Sadeas was a successful gemheart extraction, regardless of how many men died to achieve it. Meanwhile, some of the common soldiers, whose victory bonus was relatively small, placed bets among their friends over who would kill the most Parshendi. Kaladin defined victory differently. He counted his men who survived. 

Usually, the runners took care of all the wounded in Kaladin’s charge. He had continued his old practice of bribing them and the medics to give his men priority. Though Kaladin’s pay as a Lieutenant stretched further than a squadleader’s, he now had roughly a hundred men to care for. Tam approved of what Kaladin did, but only contributed on occasion. 

With battles fought so far afield, Kaladin couldn’t afford to trust the medics all the time. About six months ago, during a particularly hasty retreat, they’d had to carry their wounded back themselves. One man, Ellit had been his name, bled to death in the process. Had he been carried on a stretcher, Kaladin thought, the bandages might have held and Ellit would have had a chance at survival. 

So Kaladin figured out a way to make stretchers on the battlefield. Two men per squad carried a bag full of rope and special fabric covers Kaladin had paid a tailor to make. They’d drilled and drilled and now it was time to put them to the test. The men worked quickly, gathering fallen spears from the battlefield and binding them together, three or four per bundle, and wrapping the sharp tips in cloth. They were not easy to carry, but they were better than the alternative. 

Kaladin also assigned a man to watch the fighting around the chrysalis. The delay between the extraction of the gemheart and the call for retreat allowed them to get the men loaded onto the stretchers in time to leave. They loaded up the ten worst wounded in the vicinity on the stretchers. Others were able to walk or be carried, thanks to Kaladin’s triage team. But down the field, Kaladin could see men crawling after the retreating army. Their screams, cut short by the Parshendi, would be sure to feature prominently in Kaladin’s dreams.

So many wounded. And at least seven dead. Yon. One-Eyed Lanacin. Tipper, who had finally started cleaning his spear properly. With so many wounded, carrying back the bodies of the dead was unthinkable. And many of the wounded taken by the runners looked pretty bad. Kaladin was sure he’d return to camp to the news that some of them had died too. 

This battle was the worst of Kaladin’s career. Battalionlord Ralashin was only in command because of his near supernatural ability to kiss Sadeas’ ass. But on the battlefield, his incompetence was clear. Today he got carried away in the momentum of their advance and ordered a charge with no tactical significance, then got his men caught in a trap. Meanwhile Mavarien exhibited once again that the soldiers under his command were nothing more than a means to an end. Both men’s actions had consequences they were sure to ignore, and Kaladin hated them for it. 

* * *

Kaladin paced outside the medical buildings back at Sadeas’ warcamp. Most of his men were resting back at camp or in the recovery wards, which were currently deemed too full to accept visitors. Two of his men were still in surgery.

Life in the army was brief periods of action followed by a lot of waiting around. As long as Kaladin ignored larger objectives of the battles, and just focused on keeping his men safe, he felt alive while he was fighting. The waiting around, though, with its chances to dissect every move he made, recall every man he failed to save, that was torture. When he couldn’t cope with that anymore, his brain switched to deep-seeded apathy and it became a fight to so much as get out of bed in the morning. He could feel himself sinking ever closer to that pit of despair. Syl did her best to cheer him up, but she was no Tien. And they had lost so many men today. So he grasped at any emotion he could hold onto. The easiest was hate. 

Lieutenant... something that started with a V, Kaldin couldn’t remember but he lead Platoon Twelve, strolled by with a well-dressed woman on his arm. He was out of uniform, wearing a ridiculous yellow jacket. Kaladin couldn’t understand how the other officer could act like he hadn’t spent the morning running to a battle and midday watching his men die. Lighteyes!

One of the things Kaladin hated the most about the army was that the darkeyed spear corps were a mix of lighteyed and darkeyed platoon leaders. Leading a platoon was the pinnacle of achievement for a darkeyed soldier, an honor reserved for the best of the best, an incentive for the spearmen to distinguish themselves. Kaladin was the youngest darkeyed officer in Sadeas’ army by a good ten years. Lieutenant Tam had served for fifteen years before his promotion. Meanwhile, high ranking lighteyes as young as seventeen were given a chance to ‘practice’ command by leading a platoon. Like anyone inexperienced, they made mistakes at every turn. But they tended to shrug them off, after all, the men they got killed were ‘only darkeyes.’

What’s-his-name made a snide comment about the state of Kaladin’s uniform and the woman laughed. Kaladin glared at him in response and resumed his pacing. Kaladin had not yet changed out of his battle uniform, which was still covered in dried blood. It had once been a patchwork of red from the men he’d tried to save and orange from the Parshendi he’d tried to kill. Now it was all brown. He’d wash and change soon. But not yet. He couldn’t relax until he heard if Nar survived and if they could save Derid’s hand. The boy was a potter’s apprentice before he got drafted and now he was in danger of losing several fingers. And his hair stuck up in the back like Tien’s used to, and -

“Lieutenant Kaladin, please report to Captain Mavarien’s office.”

He thanked the messenger and followed his instructions. 

The command building was built as sturdy as the soulcast bunkers, but with a little more architectural flair. Flags hung on the outer walls, each with a different glyphpair, one for each officer of captain’s rank or higher in the camp. At the top was the tower and hammer of Highprince Sadeas. 

Kaladin made his way to Mavarien’s office and discovered four other people waiting to talk to the Captain as well. He supposed this was a way for Mavarien to underscore his point that his time was more valuable than Kaladin’s. Kaladin didn’t regret a thing. 

“Early reports indicate,” Mavarien intoned, when it was finally Kaladin’s turn, “that your platoon has experienced catastrophic losses. Not to mention, Lieutenant Tam’s amputation has left him unfit for combat.”

“Yes, sir,” said Kaladin, his voice dripping with contempt. Rage at Mavarien was better than emptiness. 

“As such, your platoon will be disbanded and split up among the other platoons in my command. We’re still working on new duty assignments, but I’ll have a scribe get that to you in a day or two.”

“But-”

“I don’t have time for your arguments. I have an appointment with my tailor after this.” 

Syl stuck out her tongue at Mavarien, which cheered Kaladin up a bit.

Mavarien continued, “Between the wounded and the dead, your platoon took almost thirty percent losses, which we both know will be terrible for morale. Believe it or not, disbanding your men is a kindness. As for you, one of the lighteyed infantry you rescued was Battalionlord Ralashin’s youngest son. As a token of his gratitude, you will be granted command of Platoon Fifteen and a promotion to First Lieutenant.”

“Wait,” said Kaladin, “Didn’t you just say my platoon was to be disbanded?”

“Yes, you idiot.” Well, Mavarien didn’t say ‘you idiot,’ but it was implied. “Platoon Fifteen is to be converted into a training unit, and you will be given command of the new recruits set to arrive next week.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You will not enter another battle until I deem your troops ready. Besides, it is clear that you’re experiencing some hearing loss, so hopefully some time off the field will be a chance for your ears to recover.”

“Yes, sir.” So this was to be his punishment for his earlier insubordination. Or, if not a punishment, a way for Mavarien to keep Kaladin out of his hair for awhile. Kaladin had inadvertently landed himself on the Battalionlord’s good side, so this appeared to be the worst Mavarien could do. 

“Dismissed.”

Kaladin saluted and returned to the medical buildings. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had originally decided to just tell about this battle and start the next chapter when Kaladin meets the new recruits (including some from Vedenar), but ultimately I decided to practice writing an action scene instead. What do you think? Would you have preferred me to skip all this and get straight to the point of the AU? Or do you like stories with setup and background work like I've tried to do here? Also, I am very open to suggestions as to how I can improve my depictions of action scenes and army life in general.


	4. Let's Get Down To Business

_ Shallan _

Shallan loathed Lieutenant Kaladin. Not the sort of loathing one would feel for a truly despicable person, nor the complicated mix of fear and love and hate she had felt toward her father. Merely exhausted anger directed at the man who made her run until she threw up and  _ then  _ started weapons training. On her first day at the warcamps. She knew it was necessary. She knew she would die without better training. And she knew  _ he _ knew it. But for now, she latched onto the anger because it was the only thing keeping her from collapsing. 

She reached for the spheres in her pocket, but Pattern buzzed a warning, just like she had instructed him to. “Your prediction of your own weakness is shockingly accurate,” he remarked, “Now I’m to remind you that you need to save some Stormlight for your illusions, just in case. There’s supposed to be a highstorm tonight. Just a few more hours,” Pattern told her soothingly.

They’d arrived at the warcamps late last night and camped just outside. Getting the soldiers split up into their assigned units, not to mention unpacking and getting them settled, took time, so the caravan commander opted to wait until morning. 

The bugle sounded at sunrise and the army efficiently packed up camp. For all that they were the worst soldiers Vedenar had to offer, at least they had learned some discipline on their long march. Shallan herself was finally becoming accustomed to the early mornings. Well, mostly. She hadn’t lost her temper before breakfast in nearly a week. 

Shallan had served as an aide to the caravan commander during the march to the Shattered Plains and had quickly become a favorite because of her aptitude with the maps. He would be returning to Vedenar with the next merchant caravan to leave the camps, so Shallan made sure to take a moment to wish him well before the morning got too hectic. He was an old man, so involved in army life that he had never married, so he tended to treat his aides like the grandsons he’d never had. And sure enough, he ruffled her short hair fondly and told her, “Jushu, you’re a good lad. Stay out of trouble.”

“Yes sir, I’ll try,” she grinned, “Though I make no promises. As you know, trouble has a way of finding  _ me _ .”

After packing up camp, the soldiers were split up. Each of the Alethi Highprinces had their own army, so a tenth of the Veden reinforcements went to each one. Shallan was assigned to Sadeas. Every Veden child, no matter how sheltered, had heard tales of the unification of Alethkar and burned prayers to the Almighty that Sadeas and the Blackthorn would never turn their attention to Jah Kheved. The servants’ children had insisted that Sadeas ate axehound puppies for breakfast and babies for dessert. As an adult, she knew logically that such tales were nonsense, but that didn’t stop the racing of her heart as she marched with the others toward the Sadeas warcamp. It didn't help that the Alethi were so tall and intimidating. 

Thankfully, they were met by a pompous, portly man in a bright purple coat and green takama. Shallan would have felt underdressed in her drab traveling clothes, had the colors been less... intense. As it was, he looked ridiculous, which calmed Shallan’s nerves a bit. He announced, “I am Captain Jeral Mavarien. I’m in charge of Company Three in the darkeyed infantry battallion, serving under Battalionlord Saal Ralashin. Now, I’ve had your reports read to me and the only logical conclusion I can draw is that Vedenar has sent us nothing but crem. I wouldn’t want you on guard duty, let alone protecting my flank in battle. Fortunately for you, we already have all the canon fodder we need, and fortunately for me, we’ve just formed a new training platoon, so I don’t have to deal with your incompetence for some time. Together with the men due to arrive from Alethkar next week, you’ll serve under Lieutenant Kaladin here.” 

Mavarien gestured to a man in a worn green uniform, who looked as stereotypically Alethi as Shallan looked Veden. He was at least ten centimeters taller than the Captain, deeply tanned, with dark hair which was pulled back from his face in a tight knot. Even though his uniform was poorly tailored, Shallan could tell that he was lean and muscular. And the scowl on his face completed the ‘competent and terrifying soldier’ look. 

Mavarien continued giving instructions, then eventually dismissed the darkeyed spearmen. They marched off the parade ground, leaving Shallan standing alone.

Mavarien called, “Halt,” to the spearmen he had just dismissed. Sneering at Shallan, he said, “We’ve got a straggler. What are you waiting for, boy?” 

“Excuse me?” Shallan asked, once she realized he was talking to her. 

“Why don’t you go with the rest of your lot?” countered the Captain.

“The rest? Oh, the foot soldiers. There must be some mistake, I’m Ensign Jushu Davar. Is there some sort of officer’s training or -” she trailed off under the pressure of Mavarien’s intense glare. But honestly, what was she supposed to say? This whole experience had taken a mortifying turn rather quickly. 

Mavarien asked the scribe to find Jushu’s name in the training camp report and read it aloud. It was... not exactly flattering, but did the scribe really have to sound so smug about it? 

“In short, the boy is earnest and eager to please, but lacks the coordination to be an effective infantry soldier and the experience to be a good officer. ” she concluded haughtily. 

“Wonderful,” drawled Mavarien sarcastically. He considered for a moment, and his grimace morphed into a cold smile. “The answer seems simple enough. You’re in obvious need of further training, so you’ll be in Platoon Fifteen with the rest of the new arrivals.”

“Now just a minute,” said the sullen platoon leader, “You can’t just lump a lighteyed officer - even an Ensign - with the darkeyes like this.”

“Of course not, Stormblessed,” Mavarien replied, “He’s to be your second-in-command.”

The lieutenant snorted, “That’s not funny, commander.”

“It’s not a joke.” 

Then, turning to Shallan, Mavarien asked, “What is your father’s rank, boy?” 

“F-fourth dahn,” Shallan replied.

Lieutenant Kaladin sputtered, “Fourth dahn! You don’t seriously expect him to listen to  _ me _ ? Even if the boy was a tenner, this would be unprecedented, but fourth dahn...”

“I’m the youngest son, of four,” Shallan supplied, wanting nothing more than for this confrontation to be over.

“It doesn’t matter if you’ve got a hundred older brothers, you’re not going to take orders from a darkeyes!” Lieutenant Kaladin shouted. 

Oh. He had such a defiant, almost regal, bearing that Shallan hadn’t even looked at his eyes. And he was an officer. How was she supposed to know the Alethi let darkeyes rise so far in the ranks? Well, at least he wasn’t objecting to Shallan -- Jushu -- personally. 

Kaladin turned to Mavarien, “This will cause major disruptions in the chain of command. I don’t think -”

“Oh  _ now _ you care about the chain of command,” Mavarien countered. 

Great. Shallan had somehow managed to get herself caught in the middle of a battle of egos on her first day in camp. 

Mavarien continued, “Look, he’s too high ranking for infantry, too clumsy for cavalry and all the aide positions are filled. I want to keep him as far from the battlefield as possible and right now, that’s you.”

Then, directing a glare at Shallan, Mavarien continued, “Listen boy, as far as you’re concerned, Lieutenant Kaladin is a storming Highprince. If I hear you’re being insubordinate, I’ll put you on the front lines before you can send so much as think about sending word to your father.”

Shallan replied, “Yes, sir,” and fell in line behind the lieutenant but in front of the darkeyed troops as they marched to the barracks. 

Lieutenant Kaladin showed the men around the camp - detouring past the medical facilities, quartermaster’s post, and mess tents. He pointed out the strategic headquarters and more reputable sections of the marketplace. 

Then he gave them fifteen minutes to get settled in the barracks before he took them outside the war camp and led them in running laps around the wall. 

Shallan knew she should probably be grateful that her commanding officer wasn't one to sit and watch his men do all the work, and that he was physically in good condition. Logically, that boded well for their unit’s success on the battlefield. But she sat on the ground, utterly exhausted, and he looked barely winded as he passed out practice staffs to the men. Then he demonstrated a spear kata so perfectly it looked more like dancing than fighting and she couldn’t help but hate him, just a little bit. 


	5. Did They Send Me Daughters, When I Asked For Sons?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I want to apologize for the poor quality of the previous iteration of this chapter. I jumped the gun and posted early because I hadn't written for awhile and desperately needed to feel like I had finished/accomplished something. I see now that there was no transition from strangers to yelling at each other, so I have gone back and added a few paragraphs to show the strain and pressure Shallan was under and make it maybe a little more clear (hopefully) why she would get into a shouting match with her commanding officer barely a week into training.

_Shallan_

Shallan awoke abruptly to a tapping noise on her door. Platoon Fifteen was housed in two soulcast stone buildings. Each building contained two bunkrooms that held twenty four beds each, a massive washroom for the men to share, and private officer’s quarters. Shallan was taking full advantage of the lock on her door and had been sleeping in nothing but an oversized shirt all week. 

Shallan groaned. It felt like every single one of her muscles was sore. She’d been in the army for months now, but it apparently wasn’t enough to prepare her for Lieutenant Kaladin’s training.

It had been a rough week by all accounts. There was, of course the physical exertion of her training, but the thing that was really starting to wear on Shallan was the feeling of not fitting anywhere. WIth the other lighteyes, it was all veiled insults and posturing. The darkeyed soldiers didn’t know how to treat her. She was nominally their superior, but she had no expertise to offer. Pattern was really the only friend she had. And she had to be careful about when she talked to him, so nobody would think she was crazy. 

Her commanding officer, Lieutenant Kaladin, lumped her in with the enlisted men for training because, as he told her on the first day, “You could be a master swordsman, but you’ll still be a liablity to this platoon until you understand the spear.”   
  
It was left unspoken that Shallan was  _ not _ a master swordsman, not by any means. So while the enlisted men, who had months of training in the basics, were learning formations, she was still trying to force herself out of all the habits she’d picked up in sword training. The grip and attack styles were completely different, of course. But there were even slight changes to the footwork and breathing. Shallan ended every day feeling overwhelmed, exhausted and frustrated. And she started every day much too early for her liking. 

The tapping at her door continued. 

“Yes?” Shallan called. 

“Lieutenant? Message for you from the captain,” said a woman’s voice.

“Sorry, he’s in the other bunker.” Shallan groaned as she forced herself to sit up. 

“Oh. That’s not what the sign says.”

The messenger was right, and Shallan had noticed that the day she moved into her rooms, but she couldn’t say anything. Jushu Davar, being unable to read, would have no way of knowing that the sign on the door of his newly assigned quarters read ‘Platoon Leader.’ So Shallan had held her tongue. Now it was someone else’s problem. 

“Sorry,” she said, “I’m new here and I just did what I was told.”

The messenger left and Shallan trudged over to her washbasin and splashed some water on her face and neck. Pattern was annoyingly chipper. Shallan really wished spren could sleep, so that he would understand what it was like to hate mornings. Especially mornings like this one. Her routine took twice as long as usual, with every motion agony for her sore muscles. She was just adjusting the bindings on her chest when there was another knock on the door.

“Yes?”

“Ensign Davar, I need to speak with you,” came the voice through the door. It was Lieutenant Kaladin. 

“Just a moment, I’m not presentable,” she replied, quickly pulling a shirt over her head. 

_ ‘Is that something a man would say?’  _ she whispered to Pattern.

“ _ I have not gathered sufficient data on the gender roles of humans to answer that correctly. _ ” Pattern replied.

Lieutenant Kaladin called through the door, “This is the army, not a trip to a play or whatever it is you lighteyes do with your spare time.” 

Shallan had observed that the lieutenant had a rather low opinion of lighteyes. While that had its disadvantages, it appeared there was finally an advantage: he would hopefully interpret any oddness from ‘Jushu’ Davar as a result of being a lighteyes, not a woman. 

“I’m not opening this door until I’m wearing pants,” Shallan replied. 

“Just don’t take all day.”

Lieutenant Kaladin obviously thought this conversation was more important than uniform requirements, because as she opened the door, the first thing she saw was his chest. His bare chest. It wasn’t her fault her commanding officer’s well-toned torso was the same height as her eyes. Really, it was his fault for being so tall. And, well, shirtless. That part was definitely his fault. Shallan took a Memory. She was an artist, after all. But then she forced herself to look up at his face. 

“Yes, sir?”

“It appears that I’ve assigned you to the wrong quarters,” he explained, “Up until two weeks ago, I was second-in-command of the platoon, so I’ve been living in the second-in-command quarters. They’re identical to these ones except for, apparently, the writing on the doors. So I’d like to remedy that as soon as possible, to avoid any more mix-ups.”

“Couldn’t they just... paint over the writing and re-do it? It’s not like anything is engraved in stone.” This whole headache could have been avoided if Shallan would have been able to admit she could read. Or at least, she could have dealt with it some time that wasn’t the crack of dawn. And preferably when her commanding officer was wearing his uniform. Or at least a shirt. This was just unprofessional. 

“That would be the sensible thing,” the lieutenant replied. 

_ ‘Eyes on his face,’ _ Shallan reminded herself. 

“But this is the army,” he continued, “So no. Start packing. I’ll be back with my things in a few minutes.”

Shallan did as she was told, and she started by hiding her extra chest bindings in the bottom of her travel bag. She shoved a few sets of pants on top of them. Then she started gathering up the various personal items she had scattered about the space.

Lieutenant Kaladin returned sooner than expected, bearing a couple boxes, with a bag slung over his shoulder. 

“Sorry,” said Shallan, “I’m not quite ready yet.”

“You’ve only been here a week,” he commented, “How is it possible that you already have this much stuff?”

Shallan looked around the room. She had gone to the market on an afternoon off a few days ago and purchased a desk with a chair, a bed, a wardrobe, and a mirror. Her one indulgence was a rug, because she found it much easier to get out of bed in the morning if her feet didn’t hit the cold stone floor right away. Plus there were a few interesting shells she’d collected on the journey. She’d been hoping to find a shelf for them, but hadn’t seen one she liked, so they were sitting in a pile in the corner for the moment. 

“What are you talking about? The space isn’t even half full, and there’s another room besides,” she countered as she packed up her washbasin, toothbrush and the shaving kit she had but didn’t use. 

Lieutenant Kaladin said, “I want this move to be done before breakfast. And we’ll need to hurry, given that we’re apparently transporting half a palace worth of furnishings. What can I carry back with me?”

“How about you give me a hand with the wardrobe?” she suggested. 

“Alright.”

Shallan blamed the bad morning she was having for the words that came out of her mouth next. Or maybe it was her brain’s attempt to stop her from ogling his biceps as he lifted his end of the wardrobe. Or just her general state of frustration with her situation. “So what do I have that you don’t? The toothbrush? That would explain a lot.”

“If this is how you talk to men who outrank you, it’s no wonder they pawned you off on me,” he replied acidly. 

Really, it was too early to keep her tongue in check. Shallan retorted, “Oh you out-rank me alright. In more ways than one.”

“Well at least I don’t need an entire caravan to accompany me every time I move.”

They arrived in the lieutenant's quarters. His rooms were practically bare. Besides the necessary furniture to store his clothing, weapons and gear, all he had was a literal bedroll. 

“Oh I think I’ve discovered your problem,” said Shallan, “You would hate the world a lot less if you didn’t sleep on a rock, which is the only known substance harder than your head. What should I carry back?”

“How about the medical kit and uniforms?”

“Don’t you want help with the- nevermind.” Turns out he could carry his chest of drawers on his own. Of course he could.

“I don’t hate the world,” he countered, “Just infuriating lighteyes and all your unnecessary frills.”

“What, like personal hygiene and common courtesy?”

“You mean vanity and sanctimonious posturing?”

Before Shallan could respond, she saw another soldier gaping at them as he passed by. The reality of what she was doing caught up with her. Chagrinned, she finished the rest of the move in relative silence. The lieutenant must have felt similarly, because he made no move to re-start their argument either.


	6. You're The Saddest Bunch I've Ever Met

_Kaladin_

“Evod!” Kaladin called. The entire platoon was arrayed on the training grounds, running through a set of warm-up katas. 

“Yes, sir,” answered three pale men. Apparently a traveling minstrel had been all over Vedenar with a new ballad about Evod Markmaker years ago, and now the country was peppered with men of that name. 

“Sorry, I meant Big Evod,” said Kaladin, “The other two, as you were.”

The men saluted good-naturedly and continued the kata. Meanwhile, Kaladin corrected Big Evod’s footwork again. He was a burly, bearded man who had spent his life getting into fights. This had apparently landed him in jail a few times, but the last time he’d been given the option to join the army instead. Big Evod had jumped at the chance, but the problem was, he had a lifetime of bad habits to unlearn. Still, he was brave (if a bit foolhardy) and physically fit from the start, which was more than could be said for some of his cohort. 

Kaladin wasn’t sure exactly how they had ended up in the army, but he thought back to the day Tien had been drafted, and it wasn’t a big leap of logic to conclude that the selection process in Jah Kheved had been equally unfair. 

The Alethi reinforcements who had arrived a few days ago had followed a similar career path to Kaladin, just without the killing of a Shardbearer. They had been recruited or drafted from the cities and villages throughout the Sadeas princedom and spent years in border skirmishes. They were seasoned veterans, only lacking training on how to fight effectively on the peculiar geography of the Shattered Plains. It was nice to have soldiers who knew what they were doing.

As he started the men on a run, he could see Syl flitting around the field as a ribbon of light and couldn’t help but smile. This work had its fair share of challenges, but here in the sunshine, he could almost forget that he was preparing these men to die for a cause he no longer believed in. No, it wasn’t the _cause_ he’d lost faith in, just the men running the army. The war itself had ceased to be about the Vengeance Pact long ago, and they didn’t even have the honor to acknowledge that.

After a sufficiently long run, he led the men to the water barrels on the training grounds and called a break. Syl came to perch on his shoulder. 

“Kaladin,” she said, “There’s something you should hear.” She pointed out the cluster of men she’d been eavesdropping on. Kaladin could tell, even from a distance, that the men looked angry, and his light mood immediately evaporated. 

Syl’s ability to mimic the voices was still disconcerting, but Kaladin had to admit it was useful. 

“I’m just mad we’re still working on basic formations!” she said in one voice.

“You know, my training sergeant used to wake us up in the middle of the night and call out formations. Even half asleep in the dark, did better than the Vedens are,” grumbled another. 

Syl repeated in a third voice, “Why’d we have to be stuck with them anyways?”

“I don’t see the point of the treaty. If they’re all as spineless as that lot, we could wipe out half their country in a month.” This was the first voice again. 

Kaladin could see other men moving toward the cluster Syl had pointed out. He figured now would be a good time to check on them. 

“I mean look at them,” Syl continued in his ear, “Pale. Pathetic. They don’t have a clue. See that one? The other day I saw him-”

Whatever Syl was going to say was cut off by a shout from the group of men that Kaladin was, apparently, not approaching fast enough, “You wanna say that again, to my face?” Kaladin wasn't sure who said it, but really, it didn't matter. The result was the same. 

Kaladin broke into a run, but didn’t arrive until after the first punch was thrown. And, from there the situation quickly devolved into an out-and-out brawl. It took Kaladin a few minutes, but he eventually separated the men. He assigned all the brawlers latrine duty for a week. Of course, that was just a bandage. It wouldn't do anything to solve the festering wound underneath: the sense of 'us and them' that permeated the mixed platoon. 

His eyes landed on two men who had been in the thick of the fighting: Ensign Davar and Moash, an Alethi sergeant whose prior army service had been on the border with Jah Kheved. 

Forcing a smile, Kaladin announced, “Men, I was just about to start looking for volunteers for a demonstration. Looks like I’ve found them.”

He grabbed a few training staffs and handed one each to Moash and Ensign Davar. 

“Let’s see,” said Kaladin, “We’ll need a couple more people. Evod - I mean, all three Evods, come here please.”

The Evods stepped forward and Kaladin said, “Alright, Moash, take your pick of two more men for your team.”

Predictably, Moash chose the two strongest-looking men, Big Evod and Red Evod, whose name made no sense, given that he had pale skin and brown hair.

“The rules are simple. If I hit you, or if you fall down, you’re out. If you hit me, your team wins.”

Kaladin had them assume a simple diamond formation and called for the game to begin. Red Evod’s first strike interfered with Moash's; meanwhile, Big Evod’s footing was off and Kaladin nudged him. Kaladin was able to get in a strike while he was occupied with keeping his balance. Chagrined, Big Evod stepped away from the fight.   
  
Ensign Davar was at the back of the formation, so it took him longer than the rest to reach Kaladin. When he did, the strike enthusiastic, but easy to parry. Kaladin dodged another blow from Moash and swung around to hit Red Evod on the arm. Ensign Davar and Moash rushed him from opposite directions, but Kaladin ducked at the last minute, then, smiling to himself, hit Moash on the leg. Kaladin was a little suprised as how well the demonstration was going. He half expected it not to work. All that remained was the scrawny, uncoordinated Ensign Davar, who didn't last long. Seeing Davar juxtaposed against some of the biggest men in the platoon made him appear particularly thin. Kaladin idly wondered how old the boy actually was. 

At first, the four men were astonished that they had lost, but they quickly turned to bickering and trying to place blame on the others. 

“Enough!” Kaladin shouted. “War is no place for individual glory. It’s not a competition. If you’re better than the man next to you, it means you haven’t taught him enough. If you can’t learn to work together as a team, to trust every man in this platoon to have your back, then you’re as good as dead already.”

The army had divided his platoon into five squads, keeping the Vedens together in two squads and the Alethi new arrivals in the other three. Kaladin had been running into trouble with this organization all week. Lieutenants technically had the authority to shift men around, so he stretched rules and completely reorganized the platoon so that there was an even mix of Alethi and Vedens in each squad. 

“Now we’ll run the kata again in five mintues time,” he said after he was done re-arranging the squads, “Only this time, if someone in your squad does it wrong, remember that he’ll be guarding your flank in a few weeks’ time, and _help him learn._ ”

Then he pulled Davar aside.   
  
“Ensign, that was not conduct befitting an officer,” Kaladin scolded, “What do you have to say for yourself?”

“I’m not sorry,” said Davar, his light blue eyes glinting defiantly, “They can’t talk about us like that!”

“Did anyone tie you up and force you to join that fight?” Kaladin asked.

“No,” said Davar, “but I had to -” 

“No,” Kaladin interrupted, “Please take responsibility for your actions. Their wrong behavior doesn’t excuse yours. An officer is supposed to be an example. You should have stopped the fight, not participated. Look, we both know it was unfair of command to put you in this position. I’d be much happier if you were - I don’t know - fetching maps and tea for some old general or something. You’re not suited for combat, let alone a leadership role. Stormwinds, I’d send you home if I could, for your sake and mine.” 

Davar hung his head dejectedly. 

Kaladin continued, “Unfortunately, I don’t get to make those decisions. All we can do is look at the things we can control. You can control your actions. Study the Codes of War, learn to reign in your tongue, make the men respect you. Obviously, you’re a long way from the combat skills an officer should have, but if you spent half as much effort studying battle strategy as you did coming up with clever insults, you’d make a halfway decent leader.”

“Yes, sir,” said Davar. 

“In the meantime, I need to address your behavior just now. Effective immediately, your privileges in the lighteyed officer’s mess are revoked for the next week.”

“I don’t get to eat?” Davar asked indignantly. 

“I didn’t say that. You just have to eat the same old slop the army gives us lowly darkeyes. Consider it an opportunity to get to know the men better.”

“Understood,” Davar mumbled. 

“One last thing,” said Kaladin, and the look of apprehension on Davar’s pale face made Kaladin feel a twinge of remorse for how harsh he’d been, “You’re assigned to Teft’s squad for training today.” 

Ensign Davar heaved a sigh of relief. 

“Dismissed.”

Eventually, Kaladin would have Davar rotate between the different squads, but he knew that assigning Davar to one of the Alethi sergeants’ squads would be a step too far today. Teft looked Alethi, but he had come with the Veden contingent, as one of the few men who had actual combat experience. Kaladin hadn’t yet found out the man’s story, but he did know Teft would treat Davar fairly, which was more than he could say for some of the other sargeants. 

Syl commented, “There is something odd about that boy.”

“He’s just young and out of his depth... and hot-tempered,” Kaladin replied, “I’ve seen it before. I just wish they’d given him more training before sending him out here. Seriously, who does that? He can’t be much older than fifteen. I mean, maybe sixteen, since they tend to be so short in Jah Keved. Even then, you can tell he never worked a day in his life before joining the army. I guess you’re right. What is some pampered younger son of a Veden nobleman doing out here? And how in Chana’s name did he end up in my platoon? It's crazy!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of questions for you:
> 
> 1\. I tried to have a few lines and scenes directly inspired by the Disney movie in this chapter. I'm trying to strike a balance between 'oh that's a clever reference' and 'whoa she really went overboard with that one'. How did I do?
> 
> 2\. A wild Teft appears. So far I know what I'm going to do with Rock, Teft, Dunny, and Drehy. And Moash, who I went back and forth about a lot, to the point that just before I posted, I changed his name and then changed it back after posting. As for the rest of Bridge Four, not sure. 
> 
> 3\. Did everyone seem in character here? Were there any lines or actions here that pulled you out of the story?
> 
> 4\. Aaaahhhh action scenes. This chapter included a tiny one, but it was still hard. Did it make sense? Do you feel it allowed Kaladin to make his point well enough? Did it feel too contrived or unrealistic? 
> 
> 5\. Is the three Evods thing weird? I mean, I was kinda going for the whole 'there are three girls named Ashley in my class' vibe that rarely happens in fiction.


	7. But You Can Bet, Before We're Through

Shallan got her plate of food and walked down the aisle between two long tables in the mess hall. Each platoon was assigned a specific time and their assigned lunch hour this week was too late in the day for Shallan’s taste. 

Shallan sat in an empty seat and cast her eyes around the room. One thing she was still getting used to was the abundance of faces. She saw more men every day in the army camps than she had during some months at home. It had become her routine to eat quickly and then spend the rest of the lunch hour drawing. 

She made the mistake of staring a second too long at a man with stringy dark hair and a massive scar on his face. He growled, “What do you want?”

“Nothing, sorry,” Shallan squeaked and stared down at her food instead. Storms, but some of the men in the platoon were downright scary. 

Four days into her punishment, Shallan felt more alone than ever. There were a few soldiers among the junior officers she’d been dining with that she could almost call friends. Here, on the other hand, she didn’t know how to act around the men.    
  
She resisted the urge to glare at Lieutenant Kaladin, who, it turns out, never ate with the officers. It was surprising; Captain Thakal, the man in charge of her training back in Jah Kheved, had stressed the importance of detachment for an officer. He’d explained that an officer had to make big picture decisions, and he couldn’t afford to hesitate when the cost of winning a battle was the lives of a few men. Shallan supposed that, technically, Lieutenant Kaladin was following Captain Thakal’s mantra that “An officer should never play favorites,” because he sat with a different group of men every day. Instead of treating the men as resources, the lieutenant was making an effort to get to know all of them. 

Reluctant as she was to admit it, she could see how his strategy was helping the men come together better as a unit. However, the lieutenant had a reputation among the officers for being haughty and standoffish. Shallan recognized the importance of creating social connections among the people in power. If Lieutenant Kaladin insisted on avoiding the officers in favor of his men, well, the cohesion in the platoon came at a cost. 

And Shallan personally resented Lieutenant Kaladin. He was more harsh with her than the had been towards Moash, for example. Sure he wasn’t an officer, but he was a sergeant, and he had been one of the instigators. Shallan hadn’t started the fight, but she was being punished like she had. Yes, she’d joined the fight, but that particular group of Alethi soldiers had been getting more and more blatant about their hatred for her countrymen. 

Of course, it hadn’t helped that  _ Pattern _ had been among those shouting just before the first punch was thrown. He’d been fascinated with insults since her early morning argument with the lieutenant a couple weeks back. Though, to be fair, it hadn’t been the only incident of his kind. Pattern had informed Shallan a few days ago, “I’ve observed a statistically significant correlation between frequency of insults and gender. Males tend to insult one another sixty-seven percent more frequently than their female counterparts. There also appears to be some effect of social class, though at this point I need more data.” 

This had led to a conversation about veiled insults, a practice much more common among the lighteyed women. The idea that a truth like, “You look tired,” or a seemingly innocuous question like “How is your husband?” could be used as a weapon with the right tone of voice, had made Pattern hum with excitement. Shallan suggested he should closely observe the scribes when she visited them to check on equipment requisitions. Shallan was spending a surprising amount of time wiht the scribes. She figured the army would be more stabbing and less bothering people until they gave her platoon enough socks. Still, it kept Pattern happy. 

She thought Pattern would be content to simply observe the nuances of human behavior, but for some reason Shallan still didn’t fully understand, he had shouted, “You probably don’t even know how to do an asymptotic expansion!” right before the soldiers’ brawl. Later, Shallan had tried and failed to keep a straight face when she explained to Pattern that he’d been the opposite of helpful. She smiled at the memory. She’d had to explain that, while most foot soldiers didn’t have any training in calculus, they most assuredly knew what an ass was. That sounded similar enough to ‘asymptote’ that the men probably assumed someone was yelling profanities. Pattern wasn’t fully convinced that he wasn’t helping, but he’d promised to stick to whispering insult ideas in Shallan’s ear in the future. 

Shallan was eating quickly. Today was a shorter lunch break than usual because Lieutenant Kaladin had promised the men their first tactical exercise after lunch. Shallan really wanted a chance to draw before that happened because drawing always helped settle her nerves. Many of the men were excited to start learning more advanced tactics, but for Shallan it was yet another opportunity for her inexperience to be on full display.

Pushing those thoughts aside, Shallan turned her attention to the food she’d been eating. The main dish wasn’t great: soulcast grain with a few rubbery vegetables in a curry sauce, but the flatbread that came with it was decent. Besides, she was hungry enough that she didn’t care. She quickly finished the curry, then moved on to a piece of fruit that had come with the meal. Well, she thought it might be fruit. It looked more like old leather than food. She picked it up, sniffed it and put it back down on her plate, opting instead to scrape her plate clean in a way that would have gotten her yelled at back home. 

“You gonna eat that?” asked the soldier sitting a few places down the table.

“Huh?” Shallan asked.

“The kona fruit. You gonna eat it?” He had a flat nose and darker skin than most Alethi, with dark green eyes and a friendly smile. 

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Shallan replied, hesitantly. 

“I’ll trade you for my flatbread.”

“Sure.”

“Thanks! I’m Raso by the way and this is Dunny,” the other soldier said, gesturing to the young man sitting next to him. 

“I’m Jushu,” Shallan replied.

Raso cracked open the fruit with his side knife, and it turned out to be shockingly pink inside. It smelled fresh and tangy and sweet. Shallan watched jealously as he popped sections of it into his mouth.

“If I’d known it looked like that on the inside I wouldn’t have traded,” Shallan said, in what she hoped was a friendly-sounding voice. 

“Tough luck!” said Raso with a grin.

“Don’t mind Ras, he’s got like ten brothers, so he always hoards his food,” said Dunny, “Here, just this once you can have a bite of mine.”

“Ten brothers,” said Shallan, trying to make conversation, “That’s a lot.” She ate the proffered bite of kona fruit and it was delicious. 

Raso laughed, “Actually I only have four brothers. And a couple sisters... and two cousins who came to live with us when their parents died.”

“Just as I said,” Dunny grinned, “He’s got like ten brothers.”

Raso elbowed Dunny in the side. While they were mock-fighting, Shallan took the opportunity to steal back what was left of her kona fruit. Raso looked up incredulously just as Shallan ate the last section.

She felt a little guilty about the fruit, so she threw Raso a chunk of the flatbread. He caught it and laughed. 

She grinned back and said, “You’re not the only one who grew up with four brothers.” She quickly realized her slip. “I mean, I’m one of four brothers. And I have a sister.”

Luckily Dunny just laughed, “Look at you losing count of your siblings. I would never do that.”

Raso stage whispered to Shallan, “He’s an only child.”

“No!” Shallan mock-gasped. 

Just like that Raso and Shallan were exchanging increasingly absurd ‘facts’ about only children, punctuated by Dunny’s laughing protests, and Shallan no longer felt so alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few questions:
> 
> 1\. How's my pacing? I obviously don't want this story to drag, but I also want to 'show, not tell.' This story is Shalladin endgame and my intention is to build a foundation for a relationship between them that could actually work. The mutual distrust and some level of animosity is there at the beginning, and they have to get past that, while also working through the other reasons their relationship couldn't have worked in canon. I'm trying to balance grounding this AU and thinking about how these characters would act in the situations I've dropped them in, while also trying to, you know, advance the plot. One thing I really admire about Sanderson is that he can build foundations without boring the readers. I'm nowhere near that level yet, so I'd love some tips. 
> 
> 2\. OCs. I'm realizing I've kinda added a lot of them, at least as minor characters. Is that working okay? There's always a danger when fanfic authors try to add their own spin to existing worlds. But also, there is a danger of name-dropping canon characters too much. Any critiques about that balance?
> 
> 3\. Mixing action with internal thoughts and dialogue: does Shallan spend too much time in her own head in this chapter? Did the dialogue flow okay?


End file.
